


Encrusted with stars

by Wallissa



Series: Ineffable Week [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (but like in the past?), Classical Music, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Romance, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley decide to revisit the Magic Flute, an opera they last saw in 1791. While drowning in the melodies of a lovesick, rococo past, they revisit old longings and think about change - how some things have changed drastically and how some will always stay the same. A light, glittering evening, sweet like golden wine.Ineffable Week, Thursday: featuring one of the senses ->sound





	Encrusted with stars

**Author's Note:**

> ......I'm late.......  
just accept my humble offerings and my apologies pls <3

The scent of warm velvet and wood polish fills the air. It mixes with the rustle of fabric and the low hum of multiple hushed conversations that come with the last minutes before the start of an opera.

Aziraphale opens the buttons of his waistcoat and sinks into the plush red chair. In front of him, Crowley leans over the balcony to look at the people below, in return giving Aziraphale something to look at.

“A long shot from the last time we saw it, eh?”

“Hm?” Distracted by some very nice tailored trousers, Aziraphale takes a second to catch the meaning of Crowley’s words. “Oh, yes. You can say that again. A lot less powder, for one.”

Crowley turns to look at him, leaning against the balcony and resting his palms on the railing, on either side of his hips. Once again, Aziraphale is distracted.

The silky material of the suit shimmers like scales. It’s tailored to perfection, in Aziraphale’s opinion, showing off his waist, his long legs. The golden light, broken by the crystal chandeliers, caresses him with a shimmer.

“Are you listening, Angel?”

“Hm? No, I’m sorry.” Aziraphale smiles, not terribly apologetically. 

“What’s on your mind?” Crowley looks over his shoulder to glance at the crowd, exposing the pale expanse of his neck to Aziraphale’s indecent eyes.

“Oh, just you, darling. What were you saying?”

He can see Crowley’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. A faint blush tints his cheeks. _Lovely._

“Nothing important, I suppose. Just that I didn’t mind the powder. Looked good on you.”

The memory of it mixes with the scent of lavender soap and tickles Aziraphale’s nose. It’s his turn to blush. “Oh, really? That’s nice of you to say.”

Crowley huffs, looks at his shoes, scrunches up his nose. Finally, he stands up straight and walks over to take his seat next to Aziraphale, prompting him to rearrange himself to maintain eye contact. “Still prefer this. Less crowded up here.”

“That’s true. The box was a good idea, dearest. More intimate.” Not that it’s really that comparable. Back then, the room had been filled with silk and lace, the air dripping with flowers, powder, perfumed handkerchiefs and vibrating with champagne laughter and sparkling diamonds. But Crowley and him sat next to one another, just like now, with Crowley to his left. 

The lights are still bright, it’s not yet time to drown in Mozart. So Aziraphale speaks up again. “It’s full, though.”

“It’s the Magic Flute, Angel. Of course it’s packed.” Crowley crosses his long legs, rests his hands on his thigh. “Remember? I told you back then it would be popular.” He opens his mouth again to add something just as the lights finally dim. The mumbling that’s been buzzing through the room dims as well - a whisper, then velvet-warm silence.

Aziraphale leans in to whisper into his ear. “Since we’re up here, you can take the glasses off if you’d like. No one will see.” The shell of Crowley’s ear is soft against his lips and he can feel him shiver with the tickle of his words. It’s tempting to stay this close a little longer, to nip on his earlobe, have Crowley twitch and make those lovely bitten-off noises.

When he pulls back, it’s with the slightest regret, but the Overture starts. With majestic trumpets, Aziraphale sinks into the fairy tale dream. Mountains, trees, ruins half overgrown with fantastic flowers.

The air vibrates with horrified anticipation and oh, there she is, the snake, brilliant and huge and monstrous. Her scales glitter in the stage lights and it seems that some sort of electric light has been installed in her head, for her eyes have a vicious spark. She dances and slithers, following the horrified prince. _”Terrific,”_ Aziraphale whispers. Crowley’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. He _does_ love big snakes.

Well, the three women appear with shimmering spears and glittering veils and triumphant trumpets and the poor beast is slain very anticlimactically. What follows is Aziraphale’s least favourite part – high pitched female choir. He’s about to let his mind wander off when Crowley leans in a little to whisper to him, his breath a soft caress against his neck. “That’s what I always imagined arguments upstairs to sound like.”

Aziraphale can’t help but giggle. The mental image of Gabriel, warbling in a high-pitched tone about his interpretation of the divine plan is all too close to what he sounds like to Aziraphale to not be hilarious. In the end, he takes the handkerchief Crowley offers to stifle his giggles and by the time he’s calmed down, the flute of the bird catcher is drifting through crystallised mountaintops. 

When Papageno appears, Aziraphale can’t help but smile, his lips pressed to the fabric that smells of a sweet cologne and Crowley’s skin. The feathered bird catcher never fails to impress him. Ever since that first time, his bells and gold and elegant hopping have given Aziraphale goose bumps. Back in 1791, when an Austrian singer in a feathered frock had breathed a voice into him for the first time, Aziraphale had gasped softly. He glances at Crowley out of the corner of his eye to catch his reaction, see if he remembers.

The light of the stage barely reaches them up here, only a fine, flickering line traces Crowley’s features in varying colours. Despite that, his eyes have a soft glow as they flicker over the stage, his chin resting on his palm and a faint smile curling his lips.

But – the thought comes so suddenly it startles Aziraphale – is Crowley aware that Aziraphale doesn’t care for the female choir and did he distract him on purpose? His mind races, trying to solve this riddle, but yes. Yes, of course he knows. It’s _Crowley_ after all.

Affection washes over Aziraphale and he looks down at Crowley’s other hand, resting on the armrest of his chair. Back then, that first time, it had rested there as well, Aziraphale remembers. Black velvet, white lace, a silver ring with a beautiful topaz, shining like his eyes.

In the heat of the moment, when Papageno had stepped upon his first stage in his feathered, colourful glory, Aziraphale had instinctively reached for it. Just a brush of his fingertips against the back of Crowley’s hand, then he’d pulled back. Oh, he hadn’t been allowed to touch back then.

Aziraphale blinks. Looks at Crowley’s profile, illuminated by the flute of Papageno. He presses a kiss to the handkerchief before folding it into the pocket of his waistcoat and then, finally, rests his hand on top of Crowley’s and turns his eyes back into the stage. Crowley entwines their fingers just as Papageno finishes. Joy sparks through Aziraphale.

In the eighteenth century, neither him nor Crowley had spoken much German, so the talk in between songs hadn’t meant much to either of them. They hadn’t even known that the thing would be in German to begin with, considering so many operas had been in Italian, which they both understood rather well. That first night of the Magic Flute had been a delight, a spectacle, but also rather confusing.

By now, they’ve had some time to catch up and Aziraphale’s eyes widen a little. “Oh –“

“Birds in exchange for what?” Crowley squints and he subconsciously squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. “Wine, sweet figs -?”

Aziraphale’s mouth waters. “Sugar bread. That does sound like the time, doesn’t it? A true rococo bouquet of tastes. A sweet, golden wine would go _perfectly_ with those light-hearted melodies.”

Crowley hums and pulls his hand from Aziraphale’s grip, just as it’d started to warm under his touch. He leans down and reached underneath his chair, ignoring Aziraphale’s frown. “Darling, what –“ 

A bottle catches the dim light. Warmth bleeds through Aziraphale and his heart flutters sweetly. “Oh, really, Love, there was no _need_.”

Crowley straightens again, a basket in hand. “Hush, before I think better of it and offer you rocks and water instead.”

Aziraphale can’t say anything anyways, he’s too busy smiling and making sure the love he feels doesn’t drown him. While Crowley fills two delicate glasses with golden wine, he picks up the basket and has a look inside.

While Tamino sings about the feeling that burns his heart upon laying eyes on the portrait of the princess, Aziraphale selects one of the slices of the sweet yeast loaf he finds arranged on chequered cloth. It’s airy, light, and parts easily under his fingers. The princee finally dares to call this new emotion that glitters through him by its lovely name and slips into dreamy, longing heights just as Aziraphale offers a piece to Crowley’s lips. 

Tamino dreams about holding the unreachable love of his, imagining a future with violins that waft through the air like a warm breeze on a summer’s night. Crowley kisses the sugar crystals off Aziraphale’s fingertips, his lips wine-cool and soft. 

Aziraphale’s own sugared lips part, but smoke spills over the stage and he has to turn his head, has to stop looking at the sharp lines of Crowley’s face to catch the first glimpse of the Queen of the Night. A sea of dark tulle, encrusted with stars, she looks like the night has wrapped itself around her. A veil hides her eyes and intentions and melts down her shoulders to mingle with the darkness of her skirts. Like a dream, she floats over the stage, her voice a sky of glittering stars. Cold and ethereal. Aziraphale’s sugar sticky fingers tremble against Crowley’s lips.

Her voice rings higher and higher and finally changes tone, tips into an indescribable enthusiasm. The music vibrates for her and with her butterfly notes, Aziraphale can feel the lightness fill him, a fairy tale euphoria that was so characteristic for those last glittering days before the revolution. A sea of roses and champagne and cake that sweeps everything away in a wave of violins and crashes into a sparkling finale.

When it’s over and she melts back into the darkness, Crowley and him both melt into their seats. Tension they weren’t aware of bleeding from them.

“All these years and still –“ 

Crowley hums in reply, his hand finding Aziraphale’s again. “Told you. It’s loved for a reason.” He raises Aziraphale’s hand and nips on his wet fingertips, distracting him so much that when he offers the glass of wine to him, he startles.

“Oh, thank you. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Crowley tips his glass and they sip their wine in silence as on stage, Papageno loses the lock on his mouth and gets his magic bells while the prince receives his magic flute. Aziraphale licks gold from his lips and tilts his head to the side, just enough to indicate to Crowley that he should do the same.

“To think that after centuries, it’s still the same. Those scenes will always carry the flavour of the late 18th century and even though those people here today have never lived through these times, have never sat in an opera house stuffed to the brim with petticoats, have never worn powdered wigs and beauty patches, they still enjoy those melodies, they still _feel_ them.”

Crowley frowns slightly. “Well, yes, Angel. What are you getting at?”

“I was just thinking. Maybe some emotions are universal. I certainly still feel the same way I did back then.”

There’s a pause, then Crowley sniffs. “And what were you thinking?”

“Well.” A lot of things, really. He’d been swept away by the performance, of course. The actors, the costumes, the stage, the _music_. He’d been drowning in it, in this buffet of sounds, the multitude of songs that would spark fire or lead into sweet daydreams. Enchanting.

But no, that’s not what he wants to say. “I felt indescribably happy that you were with me to enjoy this performance with me.”

Crowley turns his head to look at him, the lights reflecting in his eyes. Before he can find his words again, Aziraphale continues.

“I was so happy to see you and you looked so wonderful, dearest, I felt drunk on the sight of you. But I didn’t dare to reach out.” 

Crowley is so flushed, he looks positively tortured. His grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightens a little and he leans in with that achingly soft shimmer in his eyes, but Aziraphale isn’t quite finished yet.

“I didn’t dare to touch you, and it was the most terrible longing of all, to have you so close and still knowing you’re so unreachable. So when I say I still feel the same, I mean it. I couldn’t be happier to share this with you. But I’m also incredibly happy about all the things that changed since then. And I hope that –“ 

“Angel.”

There are other things to say. So many promises and plans and gentle compliments. But that can wait, because nowadays, Aziraphale can say those things whenever he wants. And he can _touch._

His mouth finds Crowley’s, soft and open. They melt into each other, wine on their tongues, fingers tangled in short hair and a soft, blooming heat. When Aziraphale pulls back, the lights glitter on Crowley’s kiss-wet throat and his eyes glow softly. “It’s a wonderful production. Would be a shame to miss it.” 

“It was wonderful in 1791. It’ll be wonderful next time.” Aziraphale’s fingers entwine with Crowley’s, his veins pulsing with warm gold, his heart encrusted with stars. 

Crowley smiles, his teeth glinting as yet another violin lifts itself into unknown heights. When they leave before the Queen of the Night has appeared a second time, no one notices.

**Author's Note:**

> oh boi oh boi this took SO long to write for some reason. It was a fun exercise, though. I read the script of the opera, [listened](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=et27CpqBvBE) to it and watched this beautiful, enchanting, _wonderful_ half hour long [animated version.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxvyaapBcq4)  
But yah. I'm not really an opera person - and my knowledge of classical music and how it works and is analysed and described - is Limited, so this was uh. Exciting? Idk.
> 
> Those two idiots didn't even manage to stay in their seats for ONE hour btw. 
> 
> And the [first appearance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOAnKwV4akw) of the Queen of the Night is SO dear to me, I'm not sure how obvious that was. Honestly, I love a lot of the songs in that opera because I had the CD as a kid but man, I've listened to that particular piece so often while writing this... (She cries about losing her daughter, but then does a 180 and puts all her hopes in the prince Tamino whom she knows to be enamoured with said daughter and who is now supposed to find her. If you're interested in the plot: I couldn't find the script in english unfortunately, but you can read about the plot/background [here](http://www.mozart.com/en/timeline/work/magic-flute/)!)
> 
> For some reason, writing this was HIGHLY emotionally taxing. I don't know why, it exhausted me so so much. So I'd be extra grateful about any kind of feedback! What do you think? Yell it into the comment box or on [tumblr!](https://typinggently.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, the friday prompt will be up in like 20 minutes sooooo uh idk stay tuned? <3


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